“Lady Arlet!" Lady Fira’s voice rings across the chamber. I turn, forcing a small smile at the sight of the elderly woman. She’s also onthe council and is one of the most respected weavers in Enduvida. She has always been kind to me.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, her sharp eyes scanning me.
I smile. “I’m here to help.”
Fira lets out a long sigh, setting her spindle down with a firm click. “You already have too many duties, child. You can’t keep stretching yourself thin. The city needs you elsewhere.”
I lift my chin. “I just wanted to help for the day, as I promised. I haven’t been here in almost a month.”
Her lips purse.
“Please,” I say with a smile.
“Fine,” she mutters, waving me over. “But at least take that loom. Kiera won’t be here today and you can sit near us while we gossip.”
I chuckle, moving past the rows of empty machines to the storage cupboards where I used to keep my thread. The routine of it all soothes more of the upset inside of me. Clears away a bit of the darkness, too.
My fingers skim over the bundles of tightly wound fibers, searching for the batch I set aside for treadcloths.
When I reach the station, I settle onto the bench, my fingers brushing over the loom’s sturdy stone frame. The structure is broad and well-worn, its polished columns smoothed by generations of hands before mine.
At my feet, the treadles—a set of wide, flat pedals—wait beneath the frame, their placement instinctive after years of practice. With a shift of my weight, I press one down experimentally, feeling the loom’s internal mechanisms respond as the shafts rise and fall, lifting the carefully arranged warp threads.
To my right, the beater hangs heavy from its rail, its motion designed to press each new weft thread snugly into place. Above it, the castle—the central support that houses the pulleys and heddles—stands tall, holding the delicate sequence of threads that will soon take shape beneath my hands.
Every weaver knows that, in theory, all workstations are the same—but some feel different. Some pull smoother, respond better. Thebest ones aren’t just tools; they hum beneath your fingers, ready to sing.
This one is good.
A handful of enduares at the back turn toward me, along with the only human man among them—Ariano, an older weaver with a keen eye for fine thread. He gives me a smile.
“Lady Arlet, welcome.”
I return his greeting and ask, “What are the whispers in the quiet corners now?”
Before Enduvida grew so crowded with newcomers, gossip was scarce—someone finding a mate, someone falling ill, small tidbits of daily life.
Now?
There’s too much to talk about. Wars. Festivals. Clashes between our people. Skirmishes. Matehoods. Children. It’s usually enjoyable.
Sometimes.
Fira grins. “I went to the new section of the residential area last night. Just to see what was there. And I wasapproachedby two men.”
My brows lift. I respect a woman who doesn’t let age define her ability to experience romance. In fact, there was this one scroll that I read a few months ago about a queen with a gaggle of lovers.It wasn’t for me, but I could understand the appeal.
“Oh?”
Curiosity blooms in my chest, but I hesitate. I don’t want to pry—until I see the light in her eyes. She wants me to pry.
I smirk. “Human or enduar?”
She dips her shoulder to her chin. “One of each.”
I gasp. “Marvelous. Did you have a favorite?”
Fira shrugs, but before she can speak, Belia, another weaver, interjects.